


A Comic Book and a Knife

by Sourastherain



Series: The Grimes Kids' Other Dad [1]
Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alexandria Safe-Zone, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, M/M, Possibly Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-20
Updated: 2015-10-20
Packaged: 2018-04-27 05:56:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5036401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sourastherain/pseuds/Sourastherain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carl has a good reason why he won’t cut his hair and the only people that know it are dead (he knows, he shot them both himself).  They sat around a morning campfire and talked about haircuts and frogs and maybe Shane had a point, he misses his mom's haircuts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Comic Book and a Knife

Carl has a good reason why he won’t cut his hair and the only people that know it are dead (he knows, he shot them both himself). They sat around a morning campfire and talked about haircuts and frogs and maybe Shane had a point, Carl gives in, because no one can judge him for that in his head. 

“Jessie could give you a cut,” his dad tells him before breakfast, like normal, old days.

“That’s okay,” Carl replies. “I like it long.”

It’s not really a lie, though it’s not the real reason. He likes his hair sometimes and hates it other times but most times he hasn’t been bothered either way about it. He remembers liking it when he looked at his dad and saw shaggy, unkempt curls and feeling older, wilder. He remembers hating it when dried blood glued it to his cheek and he had to peel it away from the scrapes.

“She offered,” his dad continues and Carl really hopes that look on his face isn’t going to lead to hair tussling because he’s too old for that, for shit’s sake.

“Nah,” he insists, goes back to reading a comic book. He feels his dad’s eyes on him for a few more seconds, standing the open living room with Judy in a one-armed hold. That probably won’t ever change, not if Carl knows his dad at all. His old man singles Carl and Judith out in a crowd these days with a wild, desperate look that only ebbs away as he watches them longer and longer. Sure, Carl can see the other things in his dad’s gaze, the steel, the pain, the restraint, most of all, the ferocity. He can see his dad assure himself that his children are still here. He can see that getting a haircut from Jessie is a bridge for Rick and their family.

Carl’s not building this particular one though, and that’s not his dad’s fault. But if his dad wants to keep pressing the issue, Carl doesn’t know, not when his watchful eye is torn away by the front door opening. They both twitch with the alertness of creatures born to survive. Habit and instinct are ingrained in them both, but the sight of Daryl immediately calms that impulse to strike. 

“Mornin’,” Daryl grunts.

Carl greets him, politely, and goes back to his comic book because it’s Daryl, who hates being stared at. Unless it’s Carl’s dad, he can get away with it. More obtuse people than Carl could see that, but it even catches the corner of his eye this morning. Daryl silently moves over to Rick, inclines his head to the kitchen. Rick nods, a curt, perfunctory thing, and the two men leave Carl to read.

Everyone knows that Carl’s dad trusts Daryl. By extension and from experience, Carl trusts Daryl too. He trusts Daryl to keep him and Judith safe, to keep them fed, to have an awkward but kind thing to say. Sure, Carl trusts others in their family in the same way, but, as he realizes he’s been reading the same page over and over, he thinks Daryl might be the tiniest bit… special to them.

Carl flops back on the couch so he can just see what his dad and Daryl are doing. Daryl is holding Judy now, awake and fussing a little. She’s a shit before breakfast, Carl thinks, and then feels a little guilty for calling her a shit, even to himself. Daryl likes her, always has, but he’s the last one who gets to hold her these days. Carl realizes he was wrong as to why. It’s not because Daryl is too busy or doesn’t want to. He’s hardly paying attention to anything but her. He can’t keep her safe that way.

Daryl lets his guard fall. Judith gets a determined fist in the man’s shaggy hair and tugs.

“Ow, Ass Kicker!” Daryl hisses, loud enough that Carl snorts and hides his face with his comic.

“She’s startin’ to talk,” Carl’s dad admonishes. “She starts swearing off the bat, I know who I’m comin’ after.”

“All she does is ‘duh, duh, duh,’” Daryl argues.

Carl looks back again. Daryl has freed his hair from one chubby hand but the other is finding another lock to grasp.

“Duh,” Judith chirps, all watery-eyed, hungry, charming baby, and she tugs again.

“Son of a--”

“Daryl,” Rick interrupts, but Carl can see him crack a smile and shake his head. He makes a ‘give ‘er here’ gesture with one hand. “You could cut it.”

“Just gonna grow back,” Daryl replies. “Just teach your kid not to be a helion.”

Carl decides it’s not what they’re saying, communicating in a wordless language no one else speaks. Daryl narrows his eyes down his nose at Judith, who couldn’t care less about all the glaring in the world from the man holding her. He doesn’t shuffle her back to Carl’s dad the way most people do. Daryl frees his hair definitively this time and scoots her down to his hip, a safe distance away from causing mischief but still snug and safe with him.

“She’s gonna fuss ‘til you feed her,” Daryl says.

Carl’s dad has been watching the same thing as Carl, distracted from what he’d been doing. He moves back to cupboards and bowls and spoons. Carl has to admit, he likes these things, houses, rooms, kitchens. He likes his dad and Daryl and Judy settling breakfast. He doesn’t forget about the rest of everything even in the middle of pristine, safe houses. There’s something, though, that makes sense of it.

Carl is still figuring out the ups and the downs, the ifs and thens. Alexandria is like the deer. Carl gets beauty and peace in the middle a muggy, miserable, hopeless day. He gets the thick, rich taste of chocolate pudding for the first time in forever and the churning nausea later because that was a-fucking-lot of pudding. He gets got my shoe, didn’t get me. He gets sobbing goodbye to his mother and holding his baby sister for the first time, spending hours and days carefully selecting a name. 

So Carl gets grimey Daryl, standing back in the kitchen, bouncing Judy ever so slightly, watching Rick move around the room, refusing a haircut like Carl does. No one is only one thing in this world. They’re all dirt warring with air. Carl has two things on his person this morning, a comic book and a knife. He gets missing his mom’s haircuts.

Daryl hands Judith over once Carl’s dad has everything together. They exchange a few things too low for Carl to hear. He’s just about to give up eavesdropping, go in and interrupt, get his own breakfast, when Daryl claps a hand over Rick’s shoulder. Carl’s dad covers it with his own, lasting hardly a breath before he drops the touch, but it was still there. Just as easily, Daryl ducks back out of the house, no more words, a nod to Carl and gone again.

“You want eggs?” Carl’s dad calls.

“Okay,” Carl says. He sighs at the comic he still hasn’t read and drops it on the coffee table, joins his dad in the kitchen. Judith has a proper high chair, though she’s only happy in it when she’s smashing food on the tray. She’s spoiled and prefers to be held. She delightfully stares at Carl and brings her tiny palm down on a cheerio.

“Duh,” Judith declares, threateningly.

“You weren’t half as messy,” Carl’s dad says fondly, the type of tone that makes Carl quiet and content inside.

“You know, Daryl taught her that,” Carl tells him, watching carefully for a reaction. He’s not a bit disappointed. His dad swivels from the stove with a look of some serious flustered fury.

“Son of a bitch!” Carl’s dad lets out.

Carl can’t help it, can’t stop himself from laughing. He half-doubles over, clutching at his stomach and it feels like he’s laughing for the first time. Judith’s high giggles join him, because she might have no clue what she’s laughing at but she senses people’s moods and no one in the world more than her big brother.

Carl’s dad breaks six eggs into the frying pan a little later. He makes three plates of food. Even though Judith smashes most of her cereal, she eventually gets the crumbs miraculously in her mouth.

“You know, dad,” Carl says, just as Rick goes to the door to call Daryl back from his vigil on their porch. “Why should I cut my hair, it’s just gonna grow back?”

Carl’s dad sighs, and ruffles Carl’s unruly hair on principle.

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written in forever and feel super rusty, but I'm complete Rickyl trash right now and a total sucker for Daryl and Rick's kids :')


End file.
